The snows of March...

... they fly to ground
riding gusts, they dress tree limbs,
and coat the world in a cotton-like fluff.
Then lying soft and gentle as winds and fall subside
The muffled quiet it brings, rises to swallow
background sound, in the ebbing
of snow's ride from cloud to swirl

It clings so tenderly and complete
it is as if it knows the chased tick-tock
towards tomorrow's warmth

I watch and an eager feather covers my lash
as a once and unique snowflake
dissolves into a common drop of rain

I speak a thought to the snows of March
"Hold tight, you will not be here very long..."

I feel that sly and knowing smile rise then fade away
as I realize thus and slowly, the snows
have whispered quietly this very same thing
to me

the winter of small men

winter urges the world
to rest and gather, precious water
and the spirit feeds its need to soak-in
the blessings of seasons past and rest
that eases tomorrow's burden

The spring that rests like a seed
in the spirit's ever fertile soil
sown in the want for more and more life
it is the path to happiness in the reach
for the healing warmth of the sun
and abundance.

So unlike the winter of small men
spare and ungiving, lost in  a fruitless
search for a greater emptiness- the seeming strength
to ignore the suffering of others, and find
an abundance for the few...
so unlike the world, as it cradles all
so unlike the gifts the world has given
to each of you.

Cecil...

We imagine a King among beasts
we see regal majesty, a commanding
voice and stature; fills childhood
with myth and legend. We see
what we wish and wish so much
that we lose touch with a greater miracle-
the truth of a lion, sire and master
of a daunting harem, hunters and takers
surviving by benefit of thousands years
trials.

We must re-imagine, the plastic brown eyes
the fixed face and imaginary roar
the plastic teeth that look so real and men-acing
and the small man, whose pictured
near the proof of no-further -life; he comes home
to a family and wife to show his pride
that he slaughtered a Pride, paid a princely
ransom, to kill a King



_________
Seems a US dentist had a yearning to kill a magnificent male  lion and paid to shoot an arrow into a national treasure of Zimbabwe- a lion called Cecil. A protected tagged animal who was famous and adored as a symbol of efforts there to preserve the dwindling species.  I do not see the benefit in killing an animal for sport. It is not sport unless the animal has a chance to kill you. The dentist didn't sign up for that tour-- the one where you hunt with camera  or the other one where you hunt alone in the bush with a spear-- I could respect either choice-- but shooting a defenseless animal just for the thrill of killing it-- oh, someone must have mistreated this man as a boy...hdm

sweetness of a day

Was only a few weeks ago
that green branches drooped low, heavy
 with white, pink and deep dark
berries that keep the dove bellies dragging ground
that added a lilt to their mournful sounds at dawn
Already, gone  to seed and gone to need and
whimsical greed

I tasted mulberries  in the early summer rain
and again, and again I stained fingers and lips
coated my eager tongue with sweetness
and as I smeared the soft fruits while taking them
there was no loss
and in closed-eyed memory I'd see
the hills and narrow winding lanes
of the little town where I grew, watching
the Manhattan skyline from my window
and how we gathered beneath the great shaded awning
of mulberry trees on Railroad Avenue near the Pennsy overpass
and filled the air with laughter and sounds of delight

We exercised the right if all hungry creatures,
we feasted on the mulberries, celebrated
with joyful slurps and sounds,  a delightful simplicity--
the sweetness of a day.

my 32nd love poem

Of all the souls around us
the rivers know us best
some hold us in heart slow depths
and the moments that hold us
keep us like silt and unseen darkness

The flight of heady waters
remake our joy, when breath and frolic
decorate lips; the gentle kiss
of life, in smiles that begin somewhere within

When we are like the river
a purpose unto self
wrapped in our own arms of love
and welcoming to destined travelers.

You are filled by that knowing flow,
It crowds shorelines of your voice,
beats like distant drums of the heart
and glows like Moon upon water
a spell of many diamonds
as much as you can hold...
cup your hand and caress the skin,
lift palm wine for the world

to swim after dark

We spotted the fin of a great white shark
As it slowly cruised near the kelp and seals
Then decided not to swim after dark.

Twas not sheer fear, but a spine-chilling spark
We did not pretend, were back on our heels.
 We spotted the fin of a Great White Shark

An east borne wind became a warming ark,
We weighed the pain that sun-burned skin reveals
Then decided... not to swim after dark.

The first quick thrust turned and slanted the mark
The seal herd went still; as gulls wait for meals
We spotted the fin of a great white shark

 The grip of the moment was grim and stark
In silence, watched one of nature’s ordeals
Then decided. Not to swim after dark,

Not On a dare, or any foolish lark
To risk crossed-stardom on some viral reels.
We spotted the fin of a Great White Shark
Then decided not to swim... after dark.

rising...

 

Imagine Miami under the sea
causeways for fish beneath tides
the pastel beachfront luxury
covered in deep blue and surf

In  sun storms and humidity we
Imagine Miami; under the sea
where fresh reefs begin, on bistros
salsa beats gone distant and dim

they studied melting ices rising tides
rebels raised the hue and cry,
"Imagine Miami under..."; the sea,
its signs observed, land dis-served.


By idiocy that no one will remember 
we did not create walled insularity
a home, at home with rising water;
Imagine, Miami...under the sea








_____________________________
Sea levels rise as oceans warm and polar ice melts. Human activity contributes and Miami is experiencing the beginnings of the seas taking this low lying area. The land there is barely six feet above sea levels and already there are flooding and water system issues with ordinary rainstorms.  The key is that political leaders there deny climate effects and will not do what could be done to promote safety-- take a lesson from Netherlands and learn t live at sea level...hdm

smaller things

He used all of his strength
to quiet the voices within;
those that urged him to stand and walk.
Long since the tribes of oak and sycamore had ceased,
when the wandering hardwoods and cedars
fell to quietude and inner view, they had not walked

Standing as if tied to Earth, feeding on
the generous warmth of the sun, he used
all of his strength to beat back the rhythm
of pounding foot marks.

It was well, with the purge of giants
that quietude prevail, the ways without change;
the world belongs to smaller things
that so busy stay
that they change the places in which they
scurry in daily circles, maddening creatures they,
that flit and irritate land, wind and water.

It is well to stand and watch
learn shorter breaths and longer sleep.
He used all of his strength
to remain hushed and still,
to creak in the stretching bark,
bend with the music of the winds
and celebrate like the stars, each
passing generation of the busy small ones;

as they move like snail foot, to gain
peace, and someday they may find
quietude.

Spring...on my street

Crimson branches heavy with cool drizzle
bend and touch wet grass tips, black cherries
of summer that will feed  berries and eager seeds
to golden wings and Cardinal newborns
bend in the breeze next to dogwood whites
and apple pinks. Golden forsythia finds
its early stage already beginning to fade
in the cacophony of color and birdsong

All along this island between two asphalt rivers, flowing
neighbor's cars and trucks; the remnants
of an ancient meadow still stand. Once the land
of noble tribes that lived far more in peace
with sun wind and rain, never sought to gain
control over things they could never own

Tulip poplars and Lilac stands, near Lavender
and Tulips, such comely additions, done by men;
show we have the wherewithal to blend lives
with the life of the ground.

Then, I watch a man sprinkle white poison to kill
the yellow-top Dandelions, that could be on his plate
or over his palate in a spicy wine, and he smiles
such a pleasant smile in front of his man-choking cars, SUV's
and noisy mower; a smile of satisfaction
as he kills my mood, the honey bees,
 and so much that nature gives

to bless us...

unbridled path

I have grown distant from the sky,
from the inviting mysteries of faraway fires
the teeming night of the past that visits
fresh to the wondering eye and taunts
imagination for its difficult reality-
travelers from the time before
the world on which I stand.

It is the minutiae, the bacterium scale
of tedium that keeps a greatness at bay;
the way a puddle can keep the man from
a destined step, or the way a breeze can alter
a life-altering thought, and as a wisp of smoke
curls to reprise a precious memory.

All the world can seem a folly when
days begin and end in a circle with no particular gain
and the distant sky, even in memory, whispers;
it is waiting, holding my place
upon its unbridled path to forever.

only occurs in Spring

I know it is the angle of the Earth

The tilts of her chin as if she smiles

To her favored star

I know that the soils lie in cold wait

For the intensity of beams to spur

Tiny life onto greatness

I know…

Yet there is mystery and fantasy

The orb in a brighter blue gown

And how the moon plays a trick

Upon air and sea to mesmerize into forgetting

A return to used-to-be’s that

Never were; I know.

All the pale blue wonder

Sun-splashed hills turning green

The songs of gurgling streams

Enjoying a bounty of cold clear melt

And underground swelled by chill and freeze

Releases like a pent-up lover

Last seasons seeds need no more than

A few tender days, yes, I know

It is the land and air, and waters

And yet, I also cannot deny,

That I know

It is a part of me, a seed of hope, a rivulet

rising to a rush, the hunter’s lust in a rising trout,

a pile of noisy crisp leaves

gathered by the winds, and tapping, tapping

There is part of me yet-

That only occurs in Spring.

beija-flor

The whirring hiss and softest kiss

At  the edge of the petal

As furious wings belie

The peace of a moment…beija-flor

The burning yearning for sweetness fulfilled

As life spills into life

At the flower of the heart

A wind borne search, as thin air carries

A vaunt will to persist, an essence of the core

And seeps into the pores of an unwitting world

That knows so little of each and so much of all

That each stir of breeze has purpose

Every seed a greatness of hope

And every whimper, a pause at lips

That would speak rebellion until

 a tender surrender

uma Bieja- flor  Brazilian Portuguese literally means the flower kiss, to most of the world it is the hummingbird, for me  it will always be the flower kiss.

among night fires...

I was born beneath a dying star
its deep red glows from the past, afar
a light set free on a far flung  journey
Among night fires alone in the cold
defiant flames that yet grow old

the wane of life counts me from the start
down fleeting joys and pain, fill the heart
as if wind-born sands falling through my hands.
The lash of forgiveness leaves the deepest scar
I race against the night, beneath a dying star.

loving...

Hidden in an un-noticed breath,
within a soft exhale and eye blinks;
it was there in touch of smooth cloth to fingertips,
and in a barely-felt brush of your close passing.

Aloft on a wispy movement of air
stirred specks and motes in a sunbeam;
there too in the uncounted movement
of fingers through hair, or the
lost point of a stare to the nether of thought.

Floating like the winged hungers on rising drafts
when the world holds all of her life, 
there is only the  patient search for a final fall.
It is in the sullen glows and joyous sparks
that ignite small fires unto great rebellions.

The spirit is never still, for it is filled
by an essence and an untamed flow;
 it is love, in every part of us,
 and through its ceaseless inner voice
existence is loving...

dawn song

The music of dawn sets pen to dance

across a page and into memory; morning glance

and first light is a balm, a spiritual calm

and it sets us on a path for day,

as pillars of sunlight guide the way.

When we reach the edge of twilight.

and make the rituals of coming night,
a harvest of flight and gathered sight,
becomes a day in which we grew

by folding the old into the new.

fitful sleep

In the older ways, when in far simpler days,
faith was easy; spun beneath a gentle sun
a greener world- its greater evils
seemed long done - and the
reward of virtue was simply...itself.

Now, comes the time when faith is hard
because it can neither pardon waste's gravity,
nor explain depths we can see- precious life
cast aground blithely, like spoiled water.

Then one must see, for all the things men do,
the errors of the present and failings they rest upon,
for the whole of our arts are in the takings.
We spill precious existence as if it were wastes
Yet, we can restore neither life nor water,
cannot create air nor constitute the fishes
that sometimes fill the boats.

For all that we can do
brings little of that we need.
We yet prosper by gift; for all pretense,
mankind  is still a vagrant seed
fallen into fertile ground to grow.

Now, we take more than given,
by depth of greed we foul the air
and curse the ground, and faith
takes a trembling refuge
in fitful sleep and troubled dreams.

solstice of the spirit

 

On Solstice Eve we pretend

to play a day that never ends, staying

waves of night that sweep

from an eternal darkness.

So much do we see, that also denies

roost-less birds and bees rise with night sparks.

The faithful lotus keeps its honey scents,

as a windless pause of sunset

joins the comedy of abstinence.

But we are the Stars before vast stars

slowly emerge to claim their due,

and in sticky sweat begins

a year-long shift that ends in frosted air.

We pretend, as in so much of life,

that a day does not end, but

in the heart we know, all worldly things end-

whether well or otherwise- we accept

the hold of gravity on  hourglass sand.

In a longest day, beyond calendars,

the Solstice of the spirit; we lavish all,

immersed in love we have created.

There nothing ends, except as we allow.

Within each grain of hope is pain

of losing; we bear faithful intent to endure,

to beam along an endless path

like the light of mothering stars.

In a Solstice of seasons of being,

we hold the day, and speak in prayer

to the God within each man

to mold a place of light and will

and set seas to roll in endless tides.

Sign of June

So much goes with the Mulberry

The vestige of spring’s cool morns

echo mute trumpets of hungry doves

as dawn has an urgency, to feed.

Falling stains, they multiply into

an embarrassment of heavy branches;

Walking by, I stir a Mourning flight

as I too delight on sweetness.

So much goes with the Mulberry

a bare male, and heavy-boughed fem

A pair, and a page in a picture  book filled

with purpled fingertips, tongue licked lips,

and sounds of we, true honeybees.

Wonder mends the fractured pause,

small birds land and peck, at mites

and tiny things barely seen, yet that also share

amidst this busy sign of June.

All who dare can savor the passing bounty

As seedlings in a season  yet to be

Fill the sagging limbs and so many as we

Sip the short sweetness of a shortened season

So much goes with the Mulberry







_______________________________________

The Mulberry is a tree common to the U.S., North America and Europe.  It grows nearly everywhere in the U.S. and in late Spring it produces a large amount of sweet berries.  The female tree bears fruit, the male is similar but does not fruit. There are White Mulberry trees, and Black Mulberry trees, many trees here ave both white and dark fruits.  In my area, the doves in particular fatten on them. They eat and gorge themselves until it seems they will barely fly. Their bellies drag the ground in the height of the season.

The food chain is a cycle, and the Mulberry has an important role; it provides stuff for honeybees, then fruits for birds, insects, squirrels- so many City creatures, and people too. Mulberry trees need no care, they come back year after year bigger and more fruitful. In the city landscape they can take over an area, so many seeds and so many new trees and bushes springing up. Cut off the top and a small bush survives and bears fruit close to the ground.

As a child, Mulberries were part of a great cycles of seasons, they were among the first free candies we would get from Nature, later came blueberries, and as the summer went on, we got apples, pears and wild grapes. But because they were so sweet, and also because they were among the first. the mulberries were favorites.

frosty dunes

Missing spring, bound in waves
creeping cold fills the inward thought
and the reflex to curl within extends
as resistance thins like the wantful kiss
felt of a bright but distant sun

When ease and comfort is a rumor
spread through hissing winds
still bare branches begin to swell
from habit rather than invitation

I chill in the slightest draft
and dread the morning steps to do
thing not put-off today, and say
spring has a fickle way that hides among
white frosty dunes, with hungered bird prints
and glyphs etched of callous winds

written by the winds

life poised just above the sea
in beauty, soft tides, and shimmered waters
where mornings gleam and dusk holds
a lasting trace of sun-kissed sky

and poised in the terrifying howl
of Nature's open throat,
the power of a deepened storm
born of mankind's caress of the world
and the force of pregnant air.

We are life at such balance, now
to rest uneasy on thrones we have chosen;
when comes fury in the winds
that rip away the love of that day
and tell us of a lost tomorrow.

When all we would hold to heart, and keep
is sudden stripped away,  a throttling dream
swallows this breath and the next; we are
poised just above the sea
as winds tear the roots of the world